The engine room was a sepulcher of rust and shadows. Lars stood there, shoulders stooped, the weight of decades etched into his face. His voice trembled as he began to speak, and the air seemed to thicken, suffocating those who listened.
"Arne, Bjorn," Lars said, his gaze flickering between the two young faces. "You weren't born then. You didn't witness the crash—the cataclysm that shattered our world and left us stranded in this forsaken place."
Arne shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the corroded pipes and the dimly lit consoles. "What happened, Lars?"
Lars's gnarled hand traced the edge of a control panel, as if seeking solace in its cold metal. "We were the best minds of our time—scientists, engineers, soldiers. Our ship, the Altera, was a beacon of hope hurtling through the void. But then came the rupture—a cosmic betrayal that tore us from our trajectory."
Bjorn leaned against a bulkhead, listening intently. "And the survivors?"
Lars's voice dropped to a whisper. "We huddled here, desperate and starving. The food supplies dwindled faster than our sanity. We were trapped, Arne, Bjorn—trapped in this engine, this metal coffin."
"That's horrible, what did you do to survive?" Arne pressed.
Lars's eyes held ancient pain. "Desperation strips away humanity. We became animals, driven by hunger. Our parents—your grandparents—they made the choice. Cannibalism. The unspeakable act."
Bjorn's face paled. "They ate each other?"
"Yes," Lars said. "The weak sustained the strong. Sacrifices for survival. The walls absorbed their screams as we butchered our own. We justified it—told ourselves it was necessary. Survival is brutal kids. Let me tell you this, there are two types of survival one where you only try to sustain your own life, and one where you starve to death, there is no glory in surviving, try to guess which one we chose."
Arne's fists clenched. "So you and Mikkel?"
"I was a child," Lars confessed. "Too young to understand the horror. My father, a marine soldier, protected me. He fought off those who hungered. But others weren't so lucky."
The room seemed to close in, memories clawing at Lars's soul. "It was never a monster, you see. The twisted metal, the eerie hum—it was us, the survivors. We devoured our own humanity."
Bjorn staggered back, disbelief etching lines on his face. "How could you?"
Lars's gaze bore into theirs. "We lost ourselves. We kept pushing on, fueled by our darkest secret. And now, as the Altera dies, I can't carry it any longer."
"Why, keep it a secret from us?" Arne whispered.
"Because you're our hope, hope for a better tomorrow," Lars said. "Your parents—my friends—they're bones now. The whispering hull remembers. Redemption? Perhaps not. But truth, at least."
And in that moment, the room held its breath. The legacy of desperation clung to the corroded walls—the echoes of hunger, the taste of betrayal. Arne and Bjorn grappled with the enormity of their lineage—their inheritance of horror.
Outside, the stars watched, indifferent witnesses to the sins committed within the ship's metal embrace. And as Lars's revelation settled upon them, they wondered if survival was worth the cost of their humanity.
The Desolate Engine would forever haunt their dreams—a testament to what desperate minds could justify when faced with oblivion.
Arne's stomach churned. He doubled over, retching uncontrollably. The stench of vomit mingled with the metallic tang, and he tasted bile—the bitter residue of truth. Lars's words had torn through him, unraveling the fragile fabric of his understanding.
Lars, seizing the moment, stood. His gnarled fingers closed around a rusted pipe, and his eyes gleamed with a desperate resolve. Bjorn, still stunned, could only manage a hoarse question: "Harald? Was he—"
Lars's pause was a chasm of dread. "Harald," he said, voice brittle, "was the one who found this cursed room, the first to rescue us, but when he found us we were too far gone. The engine's heart, where our fathers my father and your father Harald confronted each other."
Bjorn's breath hitched. Harald—the enigmatic figure he'd always longed to meet, the shadow in family stories. What had he stumbled upon?
"Harald," Lars continued, "was a force of nature. He attacked my father, rage, and desperation fueling his blows. They fought—an animalistic clash of survival. But Gilion was outmatched."
Arne wiped his mouth, tears blurring his vision. "What happened?"
"Harald killed my father," Lars said, voice raw. "But not before succumbing to his own wounds. And then—then Mikel and I emerged from our hiding spots. Fear drove us. By then we were older than you are now, Arne, and hunger gnawed at our insides."
The room seemed to close in, the walls pressing against Bjorn's chest. "You spent more than forty years here, just how many have you eaten? And you also ate him?"
"Yes," Lars whispered. "We cannibalized them. Our fathers. The ones who should have protected us. We devoured their flesh, their memories, their love. And we survived."
Bjorn's legs trembled. "Why do you still have Will to live Larse?"
"Because," Lars said, "we found the way to the surface. The other elders—they didn't know. We buried our guilt, oukhr..." Blood suddenly poured from his throat.
Arne's grief turned to rage. His trembling hand drew a blade—a makeshift weapon forged from desperation. "Monster," he spat at Lars. "You ate my family. Bjorn's family. You ate humans."
Lars fell to his knees, betrayed and broken. His eyes met Arne's, defiance warring with regret. "Ungrateful child," he rasped, trying to strike out.
But Bjorn stepped forward, his voice a whisper. "No more."
He shoved Lars, weakened and bleeding, into the hole where skeletons lay intertwined, bones whispering forgotten names. The old man's cries echoed, swallowed by darkness.
And in that tragic, violent moment, the room bore witness to the cost of survival—the loss of humanity, the taste of betrayal. Arne wept for his family, for Bjorn's lost dreams, and for the innocence they'd all devoured.
Blood and Betrayal would stain their souls forever, a legacy etched in bone and regret.
Bjorn's trembling hands were slick with blood—Lars's blood. The old man lay crumpled at his feet, life extinguished by their fury.
Arne's eyes met Bjorn's, and in that shared gaze, they glimpsed the abyss. Horror and unexplainable fury swirled—a tempest of guilt and disbelief. They had become what they despised—the monsters hidden in the shadows of memory.
Bjorn's mind raced, memories of Lars flooding his thoughts. The warmth of the old man's hand on his shoulder during storytelling nights—the tales of distant stars and forgotten civilizations. Lars's voice, gravelly yet comforting, recounting epic journeys and lost loves. The scent of his pipe tobacco, mingling with the metallic tang of the engine room.
And now, that warmth was gone. The stories twisted into nightmares, and the scent of blood clung to Bjorn's skin. He felt Lars's presence, accusing and mournful.
"We're no different," Bjorn whispered, his voice hollow. "Lars and Mikel—they did what they had to. Survival."
Arne's jaw clenched. "But we—"
"We killed," Bjorn interrupted. "Just like them. But we killed not to survive like larse and Mikkel, we killed to avenge Arne."
The room seemed to close in, the walls pressing against their souls. The weight of Lars's death bore down, and Bjorn's stomach churned. He'd loved Lars—the man who'd stepped in when Bjorn's own father was absent, the one who'd taught him to navigate the stars and find solace in the void.
Bjorn's eyes glistened. "He was like a father to us."
"Yes," Bjorn agreed with himself, his voice breaking. "And now we're orphans of our own making."
They knelt beside the hole, the blood pooling around them. The engine hummed, indifferent to their grief. Bjorn touched the cold railing, seeking answers that eluded him. Why had they done this? Why had they become the echoes of desperation?
"He was a monster," Arne said, his voice raw.
"But to us, he wans't a monster there was still humanity left in him Arne." Bjorn replied. "His love, his warmth—they're buried here with him."
And as the room blurred, Bjorn's legs gave way. Darkness encroached—the black void of guilt and sorrow. Arne realized what he had done and his cries echoed, distant and desperate, but Bjorn couldn't hold on. Lars's face haunted him—the regret etched into those sunken eyes.
He fell forward, the world spinning. The taste of blood lingered, and Bjorn surrendered to oblivion.
Arne's voice followed him down: "Bjorn! Don't leave me."
But Bjorn was already gone, lost in the shadows of regret. Lars's ghost whispered, and Bjorn wondered if redemption was possible when their hands were stained with the blood of kin.